poly_chromatic | 001 ☥ you cannot kill what you did not create

Entry tags:

fright night - evil ed

001 ☥ you cannot kill what you did not create

[Video -- Public]

[There's a worryingly pale and exceptionally filthy boy with black eyes and fangs staring at you through the screen, folks. He looks pretty annoyed. Or at the very least lost and miserable.]

Listen, I know I'm not supposed to be out yet, but...I need something. Just a little...It doesn't have to be much. I tried to find the girls but everything's all fucked up. I think...I think something's wrong. My head's splitting and it's not like usually. At least...not all of it; it's everywhere, not just in my head.

...God, I can't even think right now.

We're not in Kansas anymore, I'll tell you that much.

[He hisses, words more clearly irritated now but with an undertone of pleading.]

It hurts, Jerry; you said it wouldn't anymore. You fucking promised.

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[Ed follows the directions he's given to the letter, not so much because he wants to as he doesn't have any other option; he doesn't know where he is or why he's here, and at least if he follows the trail to the end he has a chance at answers.

But the trip feels like it takes forever; he's still not quite used to it all, and the empty pit in his stomach isn't helping anything, it just makes him more impatient and uncomfortable. But finally he gets to the door, and after a curious sniff at the doorway he slips inside.]

...Hello?

[Maybe a few patrons glance up, but only Frankie leans forward in his seat and tries to catch his eye.]

You Ed?

[There's an open seat at his little table, and a big, sealed bottle sitting on it. The question's really an invitation, after all; Frankie's pretty good at spotting that particular look of hunger.]

[He locates Frankie with little trouble, and while he's not sure who it is he's supposed to be meeting here it's a likely bet the guy looking at him's the one. He makes a beeline for him, stalking across the floor, and his greedy gaze doesn't shift from the bottle once he spots it aside from once, when he glances up to acknowledge the guy before sitting down.]

Yeah. Who're you?

Frankie Dalton. Bar's mine,

[He says evenly, reaching onto the table to slide the bottle closer to the kid. First things first. The whole reason Frankie's down here is that he knows what a mess starving vampires can get into.]

Heard you'd need that.

[And he leans back, picks up his own glass-- club soda. For a human in a vampire bar, he seems surprisingly at ease.]

[A questioning sniff, and he can tell the guy's human but he's not scared; it's a bit of a disappointment, but Ed's too hungry to really pay it much attention when there's a whole bottle of red stuff sitting in front of him. He pulls a face -- because seriously? Bottled? What is this, the movies? -- but he doesn't say no, just reaches out to pull it closer and fumbles it open. Beggars can't be choosers.]

Thanks.

[Because manners: he remembers them sometimes. Down the hatch it goes in huge gulps without spilling a single drop. And then he's looking into the bottle, like he expects there to be more hiding in there somewhere.]

You seem a little out of place for having a bar that sells blood.

Kinda fell into it. City's a weird place.

[And Frankie does look like he could handle himself in most troublesome situations. Besides, it wouldn't be the only bar with a baseball bat or a stake behind the counter to keep things calm. The real answer has less to do with him and more to do with the fact that there's not much to be gained from threatening him; not when the legal blood resources are limited and the hospital gets pissy about being asked to do take-out.]

Need more?

But you're human. How the hell does that even work? It's like a talking steak selling mcnuggets.

[A pause for consideration, and more bottle examination. He pokes at the rim and sucks on his finger absently; good to the last drop or whatever. It's hard to tell if he's finished or not, usually it's been a matter of Jerry telling him he's done and not so much him figuring it out on his own.]

I think...yeah. Is it always like this?

[Which could mean anything, really.]

[That he doesn't answer, just lets out a breath that might be a laugh, or might not. At least he doesn't look offended.]

Being dead, or being in the City?

[Take a moment, Ed, and think on that. Frankie gets up and heads back to the bar, stepping behind it to take another bottle. He sets that in front of the kid before sitting back down.]

Guy who told you to come here's covering your tab, might as well fill up.

I'll thank him later, I guess.

[With the edge taken off by the first, this one doesn't go down so quick; a few sips here, a few there, but dirt-crusted fingers still cling to the bottle tightly, like he's worried it might be taken away at any moment.]

Nah, I got the run-down of the place earlier; seems like no big deal aside from the fucking Telltale Heart going on.

[Because clearly it's easier to say what he doesn't mean than what he does.]

[That's what he figured Ed meant to ask, but he thought he'd offer a chance to back out of it. Frankie's mostly guessing that the kid's newly turned, and not knowing the details... well, he knows some people don't want to talk about it.]

First week or so you'll be starving, probably. Shouldn't hurt as much after a while. After that, long as you eat regularly, should be ok. Dunno. Different in different worlds. Some need more, some less, some get by on animal blood. You'll figure it out.

[He sips his club soda calmly.]

[He pulls a face; well that's a pleasant thought.]

Yeah, Jerry said something about that. Back to the wall kinda thing.

[Sip sip.]

Yours tastes kinda stale, man.

[...This is what happens when you don't drink it from the source, Ed. Deal. It's better than nothing, isn't it?]

[He just shrugs.]

On your own if you wanna find a donor instead. Don't allow feeding in the bar, though.

[And, well, he feels he probably doesn't have to mention that attacking strangers is frowned upon. Besides, he's not taking responsibility for the kid's actions. Just lending a helpful hand.]

Bottled blood's legal and available. Suit yourself.

...Why not? Charge for it and I'm sure you'd make a killing.

[Smiiirk; yep, somebody's feeling better.]

[It's not so much that his demeanor changes; he just doesn't laugh. Not even a little. It's not that Frankie doesn't have a sense of humor, there are just some things he won't joke about. Like blood supply.

After all, a talking steak wouldn't sell McNuggets without his reasons, right?]

Not how I run my business.

What, is it a morality thing?

[Sip sip.]

That a problem?

[The unspoken tail of that sentence is, if so you can get out of my bar. But he's not really the type to make threats. And-- well-- could be that's just posturing. He remembers what a rush it was, dying. Could make anyone say stupid shit.]

Those're the house rules.

[A shrug]

Doesn't have to be one. Just wondering.

...Why? Are they the rules, I mean.

[There are any number of answers he could give to that, and the truest one-- that he's killed too many people for that cause already-- is not one he'll share with a stranger.]

Cause not hurting people's more important to me than making money. Was to the people who owned it before me, too. Means the law's on our side. Means no one has a reason to come after us. Better for business. Better blood.

Pick a reason.

Hey, as long as they consent it's not a problem for anybody. But I guess that makes sense too, once you say it's fine with permission you open yourself up to all kinds of potential shit.

[Not that he really sees the problem either way, but. He can pretend.]

[It's the make a killing crack that got his hackles up, really; that, and Frankie has to remind himself that feeding doesn't always mean death, not here. Either way even if they're not on common ground now at least the rules are out there.]

Anyway. Got a room here you can have a while, if you need a place. Most people find roommates, 'cause of the ticking.

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001 ☥ you cannot kill what you did not create

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